Being attacked by lost, feral golfs can be an unsettling experience indeed. You'll notice, for example, that there are no more voles on that fairway, where once their colonies multiplied like fleas. What happened to the voles? In a word, golfs. Once the turfers and drivers and putters and cart drivers moved in, the vole's days were numbered. The multiplication of feral golfs just served as the coup de graceless. Voles and golfs do not mix, as the old saying goes. The greensward stretches out its lethal manicured turfs in a brilliant, vole-less and soulless display of nature's self-inflicted cruelty. And who mourns the vole? No vole-song is heard in the land. A grim, shadowy silence -- a vole vacuum -- is all that is heard. No more will the patter of little vole feet be heard on the prairie. The rhythmic sound of their byways has been replaced by the grim dimpled rattle of the rolling golfs and the chatter of their dribbling into cups hither and yon. Few remain who remember the quiet rhythms of the night when the vole was king, before the coming of the golfs. Fewer still care, and none sing now the ancient vole-hymn under the indifferent moon.

I weep for lost voles.